


Let's Hang Out Sometime

by Rose_SK



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Axii (The Witcher), Blood Kink, Consensual bondage, Dubious Consent, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Saves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Knife Play, M/M, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Other Male Character - Freeform, Prostitution, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Rape/Non-con Elements, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:14:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26747185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_SK/pseuds/Rose_SK
Summary: Jaskier was, by no stretch of the imagination, inexperienced in bed. He had used ropes on lovers before, loving the way it had left them defenceless against his loving onslaught of their bodies. Jaskier had enjoyed pulling desperate moans from his lovers as he worshipped their bodies and made them reach new heights they had never known before. Jaskier had, however, never been the one to completely give up control. Nonetheless, Jaskier was nothing if eager to experiment in bed.OR Geralt saves Jaskier from yet another pickle. Feelings ensue.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 181





	Let's Hang Out Sometime

**Author's Note:**

> For the whumptober challenge prompt 1: Let's Hang out Sometime (prompts: waking up restrained/shackled/hanging)

“Well Geralt, this has been a rather successful night, if I dare say so myself, so we can officially afford a room for the night.”

“Hm,” was all Geralt said before taking a long swig of his watered-down ale. Jaskier refrained from rolling his eyes at the lack of response, which should be _oh so_ familiar at this point, but which occasionally did irritate the bard beyond measure.

“Here,” Jaskier tossed Geralt a pouch of coins, which landed on the table with an audible clang, “treat yourself to something nice. I’ll be seeking company tonight, but rest assured dear witcher, I shall make sure to be up bright and early for us to set off on our next adventure.”

“You’re gonna spend all your coin on whores again?”

The permanent frown on Geralt’s face intensified, a reaction which Jaskier found odd in many more ways than one. Geralt did not usually care in which pantry Jaskier decided to stuff his sausage so long as Geralt did not have to save the bard from angry cuckold lordlings come morning. Although the witcher would _always_ come to Jaskier’s rescue, but that fact remained unspoken between them. It was enough for Jaskier to know that Geralt always had his back.

“Oh Geralt, dear heart, what have I told you about using that nasty term,” Jaskier gently chastised, to which Geralt merely rolled his eyes, “and yes, I have decided to spend my night’s earnings on a beautiful woman tonight… or a handsome gentleman, I haven’t decided yet.”

“You won’t find a gentleman in a brothel,” Geralt gritted between clenched teeth, and if Jaskier did not know his witcher any better, he would guess that Geralt sounded _jealous_. A notion which was, at any rate, ridiculous. “Just meet me back here at dawn. Don’t be late, or I’ll leave without you.”

Empty threats. Jaskier knew Geralt would rather drag him out of the brothel by the scruff of his neck than leave without the bard. A fact which also remained unspoken.

“Why, of course dear heart. You can count on me. Bright and early.”

____

Jaskier decided to spend the night with a man going by the name of Kyle. Whether that was his real name or merely an assumed persona, Jaskier did not really care. Kyle was handsomely built; broad shoulders, narrow waist and soft brown locks framing his chiselled face. His warm golden-brown eyes could, with a bit of imagination, easily pass as amber and they reminded Jaskier of a certain unattainable white-haired witcher. The toned stomach and thick muscular arms were an added perk. If Jaskier concentrated hard enough (which was no easy task considering his dick was currently hogging most of the blood supply), it was Geralt’s body he could feel beneath his expert hands as they explored the expanse of skin before him. Only this body was too smooth, too scarless to belong to Geralt. Jaskier tried not to linger too much on that thought.

“Are you open to suggestions, little songbird?” Kyle rasped in between feverish kisses, the sound of his low voice heavy with arousal going straight to Jaskier’s cock.

“What did you have in mind, oh sinful siren?”

Kyle grinned hungrily, his eyes flashing with something feral and dangerous which had Jaskier shivering in barely concealed excitement.

“I have been experimenting with ropes recently, and I think you would look particularly lovely all tied up and at my mercy…”

Jaskier was, by no stretch of the imagination, inexperienced in bed. He had used ropes on lovers before, loving the way it had left them defenceless against his loving onslaught of their bodies. Jaskier had enjoyed pulling desperate moans from his lovers as he worshipped their bodies and made them reach new heights they had never known before. Jaskier had, however, never been the one to completely give up control. Nonetheless, Jaskier was nothing if eager to experiment in bed.

“I’ll have you know, darling, that I would not only look lovely tied up, but I would look fucking gorgeous. Breathtaking, even. Lovely just wouldn’t quite cut it.” Jaskier grinned suggestively, pleased at the growl he received in response. “However, before we start I would like to establish some ground rules. Firstly, my safe word is Vengerberg.”

“Vengerberg?” Kyle snorted mockingly, “do I even want to know?”

“Probably not,” Jaskier dismissed him instantly, not willing to explain the thousand reasons why the term Vengerberg would make his cock go from rock hard to flaccid in a matter of seconds, “and secondly, I’m not into anything that involves urine on my person.”

“Understood.”

Kyle got off the bed to retrieve the rope from a large wooden chest at the foot of the bed. He eyed the rope almost reverently before wrapping one end around his large hand and giving it a firm tug, the action producing a sharp noise similar to the crack of a whip. Jaskier bit his lip at the display, his cock twitching at the sight.

“Lie down on your front, little songbird,” Kyle demanded huskily, and Jaskier complied by slowly crawling onto the bed, wriggling his arse teasingly as he lowered himself onto his stomach. He flashed Kyle a sensual smile over his shoulder, his tongue darting out to lick at his lips. Only once Jaskier lay face down on the bed did Kyle set to work. Soon, Jaskier’s ankles were being tightly secured to the posts of the bed so that his legs were spread and offered Kyle a clear view of Jaskier’s puckered hole. Kyle then pulled Jaskier’s hands behind his back and tied his wrists together and brought them to rest over the bard’s lower back. It was admittedly not the most comfortable position Jaskier had ever found himself in, nor the most imaginative tie-up work, but it certainly did the job. He could feel the stretch in his shoulder sockets as his arms were pulled into the unnatural pose. But pain was not always bad, Jaskier reminded himself, and if exploited correctly could be enjoyable in its own twisted way. Jaskier decided to give Kyle the benefit of the doubt on this one.

“Hmm, beautiful. Exquisite,” Kyle praised reverently, and Jaskier rewarded the compliments by wriggling his butt in a silent invitation. “What to do with you now, my little songbird, what to do?”

Jaskier twisted his head as far as the position would allow only to see Kyle rummage through the chest again. His stomach lurched as he watched Kyle retrieve a small, but elaborately decorated dagger from the chest, twirling it between his adept fingers letting the sharp blade catch the light ominously. Jaskier swallowed thickly at the dark grin that appeared on Kyle’s face.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Jaskier asked, suddenly wishing he had not agreed to being restrained. Kyle shot him a confused look.

“You said you were okay with anything but me pissing on you,” Kyle offered as an explanation, as if that granted him the right to use a fucking dagger on Jaskier without discussing this with him first.

“The deal was to let you _bind_ me. Restrain me. I didn’t think you were planning on carving me with a knife!” Jaskier squirmed against his restraints, but Kyle had been nothing short of thorough when tying his wrists and ankles. The rope would not yield. “Vengerberg. Vengerberg!”

“Hush, hush now little bird,” Kyle soothed, but the words did nothing to appease Jaskier.

“Fucking untie me, now! I used my safe word. Vengerberg!”

“Hush, you’ll enjoy it, I promise.” Kyle placed a chaste kiss on Jaskier’s temple and although the action was meant to be reassuring, Jaskier’s stomach lurched and left him feeling nauseous. Arousal was quickly replaced with panic as he felt Kyle trace the length of his spine with a single finger.

“Let me go. Please!”

“Just relax, little bird.”

Something sharp and cold pressed in the space between Jaskier’s shoulder blades, not firmly enough to draw blood but he felt the blade’s weight nonetheless. Jaskier stilled, aware that any amount of squirming would do more harm than good. The imminent threat of a blade being thrust into his back merely caused Jaskier’s panic to flare up. If this was how the great bard Dandelion, master poet extraordinaire, would meet his end then he at least hoped that Valdo Marx would not get wind of his humiliating demise. It would do nothing for his posthumous memory to be remembered as the bard who got stabbed by a prostitute.

“There you go, relax. Let me show you a good time. Let me take the lead. You’ll enjoy this, I promise.”

“Please,” Jaskier begged, his voice breaking as he felt the tip of the dagger drag along his shoulders, “please stop, please. Vengerberg.”

The blade glided along Jaskier’s spine, leaving a trail of hot blood in its wake. Jaskier cried out at the sensation, the pain too overwhelming, too vivid, too _much_. The skin along his spine felt like it was burning as the dagger broke the skin. He tugged at the restraints around his wrists and ankles, biting back a desperate whimper when he found them far too tight, _painfully_ tight. He was not enjoying this anymore, had stopped enjoying it a while ago, yet Kyle would not heed his safe word. Jaskier tried not to gag as he felt the hot heavy weight of Kyle’s erection press into the cleft of his arse, twitching with each tormented scream that tumbled past Jaskier’s lips.

“You look so lovely when you bleed, little songbird.”

Suddenly, Jaskier heard a thundering noise as the door to the room was blasted off its hinges by some unnatural force. Mere seconds later, Kyle was dragged off him by his hair and Jaskier heard the squelching sound of a blade forced through soft flesh. Jaskier pinched his eyes shut, not wanting to see who had attacked Kyle and who might soon also finish him. His thoughts instantly went to Geralt, to how the witcher would react when he came to drag Jaskier out of the brothel at dawn and find his friend dead, tied to the bed in a pool of his own blood.

“So do you, asshole,” a rough baritone voice spoke, one which Jaskier instantly recognised as being Geralt’s. Jaskier could not exactly pinpoint when the tears had started flowing down his cheeks, nor when the terrified sobs started filling the room. The thought of Geralt rescuing him from this humiliating experience was both relieving and mortifying. A calloused hand gently came to rest on Jaskier’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly but making Jaskier flinch nonetheless as a startled yelp left his mouth.

“Easy, Jaskier. It’s me, Geralt. That asshole won’t hurt you anymore, little lark.”

“Is he-?” Jaskier could not bring himself to finish his sentence.

“He’ll live. Maybe. Provided someone finds him and stitches him up quickly.”

“Damn shame,” Jaskier replied, but the venom in his tone was lost when another wave of broken sobs wrecked his body. Geralt squeezed his shoulder tighter.

“He doesn’t deserve to die a quick death, Jask. I need to cut the rope around your wrist and ankles. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

Jaskier jerked when he felt another cold blade touch his skin, but he willed himself to relax as he felt Geralt cut through his restraints. Once he was free, Jaskier instantly curled up in a foetal position, letting out a relieved sigh. His momentary peace was ruined by Geralt’s urgent tone.

“We need to leave, Jask. Now.” Geralt handed Jaskier his clothes, leaving no room for arguments. “I’ll take you somewhere safe, little lark, but we need to leave this place before the guards show up.”

There it was again, the nickname. Little lark. Geralt had never called him that before. Despite the situation and the blood trickling down his back, Jaskier smiled softly as a warm feeling spread in his stomach. Little lark. If those were the last words Geralt ever spoke to him, Jaskier could die a happy man.

“Come on, Jaskier. Get up. Get dressed, now!”

This time, Geralt did not wait for Jaskier’s reaction and simply dressed the bard clumsily in his haste. Jaskier snapped out of his stupor, but as he went to reach for his breeches a sharp pain shot from between his shoulder blades all the way down his back. Jaskier yelped in pain, making Geralt hiss. Once Jaskier was sufficiently dressed to cover up his modesty, Geralt hauled him unceremoniously over his shoulder like he weighed nothing. As Jaskier could not find it in himself to feel embarrassed as Geralt carried him out of the brothel like a sack of potatoes. Jaskier vaguely heard some screaming, someone angrily bellowing orders, and a horse snorting anxiously right next to his ear.

Roach.

When Geralt manoeuvred Jaskier onto the saddle, the bard could not hold back the scream that pushed past his lips as the wound on his back throbbed painfully at the sudden movements. Geralt gritted an apology between clenched teeth as he positioned himself behind Jaskier, taking care not to touch his wounded back as he reached for Roach’s reins. Jaskier could hear the worry and concern in his friend’s voice. Jaskier did not remember much else as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Geralt spurted Roach on, the rhythmic thudding of her hooves on the ground below them lulling Jaskier to sleep. He began to feel dizzy, probably a side-effect of the blood loss his mind supplied rather unhelpfully.

“Stay with me, Jaskier,” Geralt’s baritone voice was the only thing anchoring Jaskier to the present, “don’t you dare close your eyes on me.”

“’m sleepy,” Jaskier mumbled, and his words would have gone unheard by any human but Geralt’s heightened witcher senses picked up on them anyhow. It became increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open.

“I need you to stay with me, alright? Just a little while longer.”

“’m sorry,” Jaskier apologised, though he was not sure what for, but he was convinced that this was what Geralt wanted to hear. The witcher cursed. A short while later – or was it perhaps several hours later, Jaskier could not be entirely sure – Jaskier was moved face-first onto a hard surface. Jaskier did not have the strength to complain, still fighting sleep like Geralt requested of him.

“Fuck, Jask… your shirt.” Geralt’s voice was fuzzy, like he was shouting at Jaskier from a great distance and the wind did not quite carry his words over to the bard. “I should’ve killed that arsehole for this.”

Jaskier forced his eyes open and saw Geralt rummaging through one of his packs briefly before retrieving what looked like a small vial, a needle and some thread. Jaskier swallowed thickly, his eyes fluttering shut once again as the dizziness became too much to handle. A large, warm hand came to rest on his cheek and Jaskier basked in the affectionate gesture.

“Jaskier, I need you to listen to me. Open your eyes.” With great difficulty, Jaskier did as he was told and was rewarded with the sight of amber eyes staring at him with unwavering concern. Despite the pain and the urgency of the situation, Jaskier smiled. “Listen Jask, I’m going to clean the wound with vodka. It will hurt, but I need you to stay as quiet as possible, do you understand?”

Jaskier barely mustered enough strength to nod. In a last desperate effort, the bard moved his hand closer to Geralt, needing to feel something, _anything_ , other than the great empty void between him and his best friend of nearly a decade. The witcher indulged him by treading his fingers with Jaskier’s.

“Good lad. After I’ve done that, I’ll need to stitch the wound shut. This will hurt too, but I need you to stay quiet. We’re still close to the town and they can’t find us when you’re in that state, understood?”

“Axii,” Jaskier rasped.

“What?”

“Axii… me…”

There was a short pregnant pause where Geralt considered the request carefully, but Jaskier knew without looking at his wound that he was bleeding out and time was of the essence. Geralt squeezed his hand reassuringly before letting go with a soft sigh. Jaskier instantly missed the warm touch.

“Forgive me, Jaskier. Axii…” Jaskier felt his mind go blank, and thankfully, the pain subsided too as Geralt’s voice filled his mind, “you will remain still and quiet while I patch you up, but you won’t fall asleep.”

Jaskier’s eyes opened, as the sign compelled him to do, and he could see Geralt staring back at him. There was no pain, no fear, no adrenaline… just peaceful quiet as Jaskier’s every muscle relaxed under Geralt’s magic. He felt gentle hands on his back, warmth radiating from them through the thin fabric of Jaskier’s cotton shirt, which clung to his back caked in his own blood. The shirt was torn apart by the same strong hands that had squeezed his hand mere seconds before, and under different circumstances the display of raw strength would have been arousing to Jaskier.

“Tell me how you’re feeling,” Geralt’s voice filled his mind once again, and Jaskier found himself drawn to the sound like to a siren’s call.

“Mmh… like ‘m floating…”

“Do you feel any pain?”

“No.”

It was not a lie. Jaskier was convinced he could not lie under Geralt’s spell. Something liquid ran down the length of his spine, either fresh blood or the vodka the witcher said he would use. No pain, though, only a slight discomfort as the cold liquid washed over his back. Geralt then used something soft, most likely Jaskier’s shirt, to clean the wound properly. The fog that had settled in his mind slowly began to lift, and with it the pain Jaskier was supposed to feel returned with a force. The bard was taken by surprise and barely managed to muffle a loud pained cry by biting on his tongue.

“Axii… Jaskier, calm down.” The fog returned. Jaskier sighed with relief. “I will stitch the wound shut now. Remember, you will remain still and quiet while I patch you up, but you won’t fall asleep.”

Jaskier felt something sharp prick the tender skin around his wound, but thankfully there was no pain. It was a strange sensation being able to feel the needle pierce through the skin and the thread sewing the wound shut. When Jaskier described the sensation weeks later to the other witchers at Kaer Morhen, he used the words ‘pleasant’ and ‘titillating’ while Geralt rolled his eyes fondly.

“Jaskier, tell me how you’re feeling.”

“Tickles,” the bard replied, a weak chuckle pushing was his lips.

“You’re doing well, lad. Good boy.”

The praise made Jaskier feel warm, either because he was under Geralt’s spell or because he had yearned for the witcher’s approval for nearly a decade and was finally getting to feel it. Jaskier did not care to find out which it was that made his heart race in his chest and his stomach flip like a landborn fish.

“Almost done, little lark. Keep quiet for me a little while longer.”

Only when Geralt had finished sewing the wound shut did the fog lift again. Jaskier blinked uncomprehendingly, his eyes desperately trying to adjust to the darkness of the forest. Geralt’s hands were still on his back, which was a great comfort. Only when Jaskier’s senses came back to him fully did he realise that Geralt was mumbling soft words to him.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. I’m so sorry.”

“Whatever for, dear heart?” Jaskier whispered weakly, suddenly feeling exhausted.

“The things… the things I could’ve made you do using that sign… you don’t understand…”

“Geralt,” Jaskier meant to reach for Geralt’s hand, but both were still firmly resting on his back and Jaskier was too tired to figure out the logistics to get to them. Fortunately, the witcher understood and he tenderly interlaced his fingers with Jaskier’s for the second time that night. Jaskier’s heart felt like it could burst with love. “I trust you. I know you’d never… do anything to h-hurt me.”

Geralt inhaled sharply and tightened his grip around Jaskier’s hand, holding onto like his life depended on it.

“Sleep, little lark. I’ll make sure nothing gets to you.”

Jaskier did not have to be told twice.

____

When Jaskier woke up, he was not lying on the hard ground any longer. Instead, he felt the softness of a bedroll underneath him and his head had been propped on clothes which had been bundled up to form a make-shift pillow. Something warm was wrapped around his middle, and when his eyes finally managed to blink open and adjust to the light cast by the campfire, Jaskier realised it was a thick veiny arm.

Geralt’s arm.

A warm body shifted against Jaskier’s back, a relieved sigh pushing past Geralt’s lips when he realised that Jaskier was finally awake. His arm did not budge, to Jaskier’s great delight. He tried to press himself closer to Geralt’s chest, but the witcher stopped him from doing so. For a heart-shattering second, Jaskier felt like bursting into tears as his hopes that Geralt felt more for him than he initially let on were crushed at the obvious rejection.

“Shh, shh,” the witcher whispered in his ear, his arm tightening around Jaskier’s middle as the bard tried to pry himself free, “calm down little lark. The wound on your back was not deep, but it still needed stitching. Don’t hurt yourself by pressing too closely to me.”

 _Oh_. Geralt was concerned about his wound. Jaskier could have wept with joy.

“Thank you,” Jaskier breathed, his eyes fluttering shut again as he basked in the warmth of Geralt’s embrace. “Thank you for coming to my rescue… again. How did you know?”

“I…,” Geralt tensed against him, but instead of pushing Jaskier away he tightened his hold around him. “When I left the tavern I saw you flirt with this guy and… there was something _off_ about him, I could feel it. I saddled up Roach and stayed close to the brothel, just… listening. I could hear your heart racing, smell your fear… so I intervened.”

“Hmm. Do you usually listen to me when I go to the brothel?” Jaskier had to fight the small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips when he felt Geralt flinch against him. There was something very special about the way his words rendered the witcher speechless for the briefest moment.

“I, no _of course_ not, I wouldn’t… listen, it’s not that I _listen in_ on what’s happening, more that I… I just make sure you’re not getting into trouble… fuck off, Jaskier,” Geralt cursed him as an amused snort pushed past the bard’s lips. The witcher grumbled something about irritating bards under his breath as he rose to his feet, leaving Jaskier feeling cold and vulnerable. An involuntary whine left Jaskier at the loss of contact, and as he went to turn around a searing pain shot up his back. The yelp that resulted from the action had Geralt kneeling next to Jaskier in a matter of seconds, the witcher moving so quickly that the bard worried his friend might have pulled a muscle doing so.

“I _told_ you not to move, you idiot,” Geralt chastised, but his eyes betrayed his worry, “you’ll open the wound again if you’re not careful.”

“Nice to know that you care, dear heart.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Geralt retorted, a mischievous smirk on his lips. Jaskier slapped Geralt’s shoulder, but with the best of intentions he knew he could not physically hurt a witcher. Geralt knew this, too, which was why his smirk only widened at the action.

“Oh, so _now_ you’ve developed a sense of humour. After nearly ten fucking years. Wonderful, just wonderful.”

“Stop whining,” Geralt gently rolled Jaskier over so the bard lay on his front, “you’ll attract predators.”

“Har-har-har.”

“You really scared me, you know?” Geralt admitted softly, ending the light-hearted moment they had just shared. Jaskier felt his heart break in his chest, but he felt an indescribable elation at the admission. Geralt cared. Of course he did, Jaskier had never doubted that for a second, but the witcher was being so _open_ about it for once. That was the true novelty here. Jaskier could get used to it.

“I’m sorry. I sure won’t be hiring any whores for a little while,” Jaskier promised, more his own benefit than for Geralt’s.

“Jaskier, what have you told me about using that nasty word,” Geralt joked once again, earning himself a glare from his companion. The witcher offered an apologetic smile as he carded his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, and damn if that was not the most Jaskier had seen his friend smile in nearly a decade. It suited Geralt tremendously. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“About my use of the word whore?”

“Don’t play dumb, Jask. It doesn’t suit you one bit.”

Jaskier sighed, shaking his head as if to chase away the intrusive thoughts.

“Not now. Probably not today either. You came, that’s what matters. I need… I need time.”

Geralt nodded, his fingers gently massaging Jaskier’s scalp and occasionally catching on a tangle which had the bard hissing dramatically. Geralt’s ministrations became gentler each time he got caught in Jaskier’s hair. It was a nice change to have the witcher doting on him, taking care of him, being _tender_.

“Of course. Is there anything you need me to do. Or not to do?”

“You, dear heart, have never done anything that justifies that question,” Jaskier reassured him, but his words were met with an irritated huff.

“Yes I did. I punched you when we left Posada-“

“Because I referred to you as the Butcher of Blaviken,” Jaskier interrupted, not giving Geralt a chance to lose himself in the self-deprecating thoughts.

“-and I referred to your singing as a fillingless pie-“

“That one hurt more, admittedly, but you hadn’t slept in a week.”

“Stop defending my actions, Jaskier,” Geralt snapped at him, his fingers pulling back so he could run his hand over his face in a frustrated gesture. The witcher sighed, “I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve the fact that you stick by me despite me trying my very hardest to push you away. I should’ve intervened earlier so that dick didn’t have a chance to carve you open like that.”

“Geralt, calm down,” Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s thigh in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, “You saved me from many a beating in the past, this time-“

“Was different,” Geralt hissed, “because this time you weren’t just fucking beat up, Jaskier, that bastard took away your fucking choice. I should’ve acted sooner, I… you _deserve_ a choice. By the gods Jaskier, I just… I just don’t deserve you, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting you. If… if you’ll have me.”

Jaskier had never seen Geralt look at him with _that_ look in his eyes, nor had he ever imagined that there would come a day where the witcher would allow himself to be vulnerable around the bard. Those amber eyes, far too expressive for their own good, stared at Jaskier like Geralt worried that the bard would send him away. Bloody fool.

“Oh Geralt, dearest sweetest witcher, I trusted my heart into your capable hands from the very first day I saw you in Posada. If you’ll have me, then I’ll have you.”

Geralt visibly deflated as relief replaced anxious anticipation. His shoulders relaxed as he directed a soft smile, the most genuine smile that had ever graced Geralt’s lips, at Jaskier. Things were not perfect, not by a long shot, but they would work through this together too. Just like they always did.

END.


End file.
